Peter watched the passengers spill out of the three carriages that made up the train that had pulled into Morton Sands, the last metropolitan station on the line that wound down the coast to Carrick, at eleven-fifty on the Friday night Karen Newhouse failed to make it home.
He had to watch the footage a couple of times, before spotting Karen Newhouse in the group of passengers that alighted from the middle carriage. Be a lot easier to see a girl in a short red dress if these bloody cameras recorded in color, he thought, as he watched her walk across the platform and head for the exit that would take her to the street and home.
Once he knew where she was in the crowd of people crossing the platform, he turned his attention to everybody else in that crowd, especially anyone heading for the same exit. On his fifth review of the scene, he recognised one of the young men walking alongside her: John Jackson.
‘Hey, Inspector, come and look at this,’ he said, when Carl arrived back from lunch.
‘What have you got, Pete?’
‘Look who’s getting off the train with Karen,’ said Peter, pointing to his monitor. ‘John Jackson.’
‘Get him in. He might be able to shed some light on who else was on that train or standing around the station.’
‘Bit of a coincidence him being in the vicinity of both murders, don’t you think, Inspector?’
‘Unless he’s got access to a syringe full of someone else’s semen, Pete, there’s nothing actually linking him to Melissa’s murder.’
‘Still a bit weird.’
‘Let’s hope he wasn’t pissed or off his face after a wild night in the city. Give him a call, and get him to come in and look at that footage. If we’re lucky, he’ll be on campus, so he might be able to come in today, and see if he’s already made a statement.’
to be continued…